Bill was not so much a man of the world as a man of Basford and Hartshill. Yet his life was one of extraordinary richness in its simplicity, filled with minute experiences and, I always felt, a whole ocean of private memories. At night, he would sit alone in his back room, unpacking these secrets like a cut glass set, only to repack them before morning. I sensed there was more to Bill than he ever revealed.
Our arrival on Victoria Street was marked by two events.
First, within minutes, I was sent to buy cigarettes for my mother. Norman Bettany, owner of the small grocer's next door, sporting a grey shop coat and brilliantined hair, shook my hand and said, "Welcome to Basford." It was a gesture unimaginable today.
Second, Bingo, the dog who had lived there with the previous occupants, began making unannounced and traumatic visits. This gave Bill a chance to show his way with dogs.
Bingo had already left his mark—scratch lines at paw height on the outside of the kitchen door, a testament to his former guardianship. A few days after we had unpacked most of our belongings, we heard desperate scratching, grunting, and moaning from that door. Looking out the window, we saw Bingo again—a refugee from his own fate, trying to return to the familiar and certain.
The first time, we had little idea how Bingo would react upon finding his territory, and that of his master and mistress, occupied by an invading force denying him what he still saw as his legitimate home.
In short, Bingo turned exceptionally nasty. When our faces appeared at the window instead of the reassuring ones of his owners, his expression was one of bewilderment. His eyes—if a dog could do this—widened with shock and incomprehension. As we approached, that look festered into vicious disappointment, bile, and acrid resentment.